


Mothering Sunday

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Infertility, M/M, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 01:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14581518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: You can mourn something you never had





	Mothering Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> This is me trying to come to terms with my own inability to have children. If Mycroft feels OOC it's probably me.

Mycroft sat alone at the restaurant table. Nearby an omega sat with his pups, the youngest one squirming in his seat, his mother giving him an exasperated smile. Mycroft looked away, eyes skimming over the placard in the middle of the table reminding guests to bring their mothers here for their special day. Another child bumped his chair as he walked by, and his mother nudged him to give an apology. He quickly did and hurried after her.

Greg slid into the seat across from Mycroft. “They’re busy today, aren’t they?” he asked, reaching across to take Mycroft’s hand.

Mycroft stirred from his reverie. “We did decide to go out for breakfast on a Saturday morning,” said Mycroft, looking at their hands together, wedding rings side by side.

“You all right?” asked Greg.

Mycroft shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Course it does,” said Greg. His eyes fell on the placard and he moved it aside and face down. “You know it doesn't make a difference to me, whether you can have pups or not.”

“I know,” said Mycroft, pulling his hand away and tucking it into his lap.

Greg frowned. “You didn’t order yet, did you?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Was waiting for you.”

“Come on then.” Greg got to his feet, offering Mycroft his hand again.

Mycroft frowned, but accepted it, letting himself be led outside and onto the pavement. “Not like you to skip breakfast,” he said with some attempt at levity.

“We’ll eat something,” promised Greg, “but I think you and I need to talk.”

Mycroft tried to ignore the spike of anxiety that went through him at those words. “About?”

“You. And us. And no I’m not leaving you, so don’t start thinking worst case scenario.” Greg leaned over and kissed his temple. “I love you.”

Mycroft smiled softly. “I know.”

Greg tugged Mycroft over to his car and got him in. Mycroft looked at the city streets. It was irrational for his heart to feel so heavy. But there it was. Sentiment and emotion, always so messy. He raised an eyebrow as Greg pulled into a drive-thru. “Really?”

“An occasional Egg McMuffin will not make you any less posh,” said Greg, looking at the menu.

“I do have a reputation,” grumbled Mycroft.

“I won’t tell anybody. Your usual?”

Mycroft slouched down in his seat as if afraid of being seen. “Yes.”

Greg smiled fondly and ordered for them. Fortunately, the line was quick and Mycroft munched on his hash brown as they headed out of the city center.

The food provided a welcome distraction from Mycroft’s thoughts but they’d both finished eating by the time Greg pulled up to a small park. Despite the weekend, the place was virtually abandoned.

“Come on, there’s a nice walking path,” said Greg, binning the trash.

Mycroft carried his umbrella from habit, wondering just how this conversation would go. He could think of several courses and none of them seemed particularly pleasant.

“Quit thinking so hard,” said Greg, taking his hand again.

Mycroft sighed. “What do you want to talk about?”

“You,” said Greg.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Mothering Sunday is next week and you’ve been quieter than usual ever since the adverts started.”

“It doesn’t apply to me. I’m not a mother.” Mycroft looked at the grass, aware Greg was watching him.

“And that’s exactly why you’ve been quiet.” Greg sighed and sat down on a bench. “God knows trying to get you to talk about your feelings is harder than getting you to admit you like junk food. But you don’t have to keep it all inside.”

Mycroft looked over and saw the sincerity in Greg’s eyes. He sighed and sat, rubbing his face in his hands. “Why do we need to talk about this?” he asked, looking at the ground.

“Because you’re hurting.” Greg put an arm around him. “And I’m going to keep putting my foot in my mouth if you don’t talk to me.”

“It’s irrational,” muttered Mycroft.

“You want to be a mother. There’s nothing irrational about that,” said Greg gently.

“Plenty of people choose not to have pups,” grumbled Mycroft.

“But you didn’t have that choice,” said Greg, watching him.

Mycroft bit his lip, Greg’s hand warm on his back. He sagged. “Maybe if I tried to get pregnant earlier? Maybe if I’d done something different?” He found tears stinging his eyes and blinked them back.

“It’s natural to wonder why,” Greg rubbed his back.

Mycroft turned and tucked himself against Greg’s side, fiddling with his fingers. “I’ve accomplished so much in my life. A child won’t magically make my life complete.”

“No. But it’s okay to mourn the fact that you’ve never had one. To wonder if you would be a good parent. To wish you had the chance to find out.” 

“I’m an omega. And I’m bonded. That’s always the second or third question from strangers. Right after my name. ‘Do I have any children?’ And when I say no, they ask, ‘do I want them?’ They’re not trying to be hurtful.”

Greg kissed the top of his head. “No, but it’s a reminder.”

Mycroft nodded and rubbed his eyes. “And they often ask if I’ve considered other options. Of course I have. I don’t think adoption would be a good idea. I’m far too set in my ways at this point and neither of us have an abundance of free time.”

“And that’s your choice,” said Greg. “I’ll support you no matter what.”

“It’s not selfish of me?” asked Mycroft.

“To want to bear your own children? No. Not at all.” 

Mycroft sighed. “It’s this time of year.”

“I know,” said Greg. “I noticed it last year, but I didn’t say anything, and that’s my own fault.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Mycroft.

“And neither have you. Sometimes these things just don’t happen, and there isn’t always a reason or a fix. It’s okay to hurt.” He hugged Mycroft.

“It’s not rational,” Mycroft repeated.

“Emotions are messy. I know you don’t like them, but they are part of who you are. You want to be a mother. You can’t be one, not the way you want to be. It’s okay to grieve.”

Mycroft closed his eyes against the ache in his heart. Grief. That was a good word for it. The loss wasn’t of anything tangible, but the loss of identity. The loss of secretly hoped for dreams. The loss of plans and projections and opportunity. An imagined alternate life, ephemeral as a wisp of smoke. Not merely a road not taken, but one with the bridge out before the journey could even start.

Mycroft took a breath and, for once in his life, allowed himself to feel the yearning he so often ignored. Once he let himself acknowledge it, he started to weep. Mourning. He shook with the enormity of it all, gave himself over to the anger and the sorrow. To grief. There _was_ something missing, and always would be. 

Finally, as the tears slowed he reminded himself that it didn’t make him less an omega, less a person. He was more than motherhood. But he admitted to himself that motherhood was something he craved even as it was forever out of reach. 

Greg kept his silence, holding him a tighter still, rubbing his back. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft managed eventually, voice hoarse.

“I love you,” said Greg, pulling him up and kissing him gently. Mycroft could see tears standing in his eyes too, though they didn’t fall.

“I love you, too.” Mycroft sniffled and hugged him tightly

“Whatever you need,” said Greg. “I’m here. For better or worse and all that.”

“You’re also quite good at making me stop and breathe when I need to.”

“Yeah well, you do the same for me.” Greg leaned in and kissed his nose.

Mycroft gave a watery chuckle and pushed him back. “I need a handkerchief before you do that.”

Greg produced one from his pocket and handed it over. “Do you need another minute?”

“I think...I think I am okay for now,” said Mycroft.

Greg nodded and got to his feet. “What do you say that we get out of town next Sunday?”

“I think my mother will want to kill you,” said Mycroft.

“We’ll send her a big bouquet. I’m sure you can conjure up a meeting or some other excuse.”

“Sherlock will want to help if I leave him and John alone at dinner.”

“I’ll protect you,” promised Greg, taking the umbrella and opening it above them as it started to sprinkle.

“I know. And perhaps that’s a good idea, at least this year.”

Greg put an arm around him as they headed back to the car. “You’re going to be sad and that’s fine. Not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I.”

They got back to the car and Mycroft settled in, closing his eyes. He was exhausted, but it was the good sort, like when he’d been spending all of his energy on a problem and had finally found the key. Nothing would change physically; he wasn’t going to suddenly get pregnant via divine intervention. And he knew this time of year would always twist that ache. But he could move down the road of his life. He’d never stop wondering what if, but, perhaps, he could learn to accept what was.

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to Beltainfaire for reading over, and for her and theartstudentyouhate for reading along.


End file.
